“…gleicht dem ungeschaffnen Gang des Schwanes.” —Der Schwan, Rainer Maria Rilke
By day’s end we are spent,
our lumbering through this
living slumber to the last look
light leaves us at the lakeshore,
swan‑like fierceness flickering
under feathers white and tomb‑like.
How horribly the waters part
beneath us, surround on all sides,
grapple us with long ripples,
bony strokes pressing us to
the lowest point of the lake floor.
There the silt settles from waters
stirred and cycling around us,
laid with whispered prayers
and dreams too terrible
to remember by morning.
How stunned and numbly we wake,
shake off the watery shroud,
breathe awareness through
lungs drowned by night’s respite.
We stumble down to lividity, hers,
a thought unshaken by morning’s breath,
desperate death where the heart
stops and air escapes altogether.
Now, words stick fast to the inner
walls, my chest still grasping for air,
stubbornly held by the dream’s
dampened and delicate darkness,
drifting in the swan’s scything path
and death, which is a letting go.
Very detailed and powerful imagery, Donald. Your poems always take us on a mental journey. Thank you for posting and sharing!
I write from many different sources/reasons.
Sometimes I write from memories, sometimes from heartbreak, other times from current events. Then there are times when I seem to just write off the top of my head. That is where I get my sharp wit from because my head is pointed. (really!)
There is a ridge on the top of my head from front to back. That has cause me to hit my head in the cellar, low hanging branches, etc... more than most people.
Thanks, Deb. I think out of our vulnerable selves we speak truth. That's where I write from, too.
Seems sad to me,beutiful words full of sadness and loss!thanks for sharing more than your words,your pain!deb
Thanks, Lee. I wrote this after a long dry spell, following the unexpected death of my MIL, who was visiting us at the time. It's been a few years, but it was poetry that helped me find my way back to writing.